Roderick

I’ve never been a pretty man. At best my looks were ordinarily masculine, with thick black hair, dark eyes and a lantern jaw. I’m tall and strong and quick, and at eighteen years old I was a prime candidate for the king’s army. I served for six years, earned the rank of major and won many distinctions before the fight that changed my life.

Sometimes I can still feel the weight of my enemy’s body pressed against mine as we rolled in the trench that awful rainy night, caught in our life or death struggle, fighting for the knife. In the end I managed to turn it on him and bury it in his throat, but not before he laid the left side of my face open from my cheekbone to my lip, leaving the flesh hanging off my face.

Talented army surgeons did their best to repair the damage, but I would never look normal again. Besides the hideous scar taking up half of my face, the left side of my mouth is all messed up. I still have feeling in it, but the bottom lip droops faintly while the upper one healed in a permanent sneer.

Four years have passed since that awful ordeal. The general did not protest when I announced I’d had enough of war to last me a lifetime, and saw to it I was discharged with ample compensation for my injury.

Rather than spend that money, I was careful to invest it from the start. I played the market shrewdly, and in very little time money was flowing in, which I was able to reinvest in bigger and bigger projects. Then one day I met a shabby old inventor named Horace who changed my life forever.

Horace was arrogant, belligerent and immediately unlikable. When we met he flat out refused to shake my hand, meet my gaze or answer any of my questions, but would speak only of his unappreciated brilliance. With that personality, it was easy to see why so many investors had turned him away, but rather than follow their example I chose simply to listen when this awkward, offensive man spoke, and hear him out to the end.

Horace proved to be genius, and he had not one, but several brilliant inventions he’d been stockpiling over the years. On a wild, inadvisable hunch, I put all of my money into him so we could begin marketing and selling his gadgets, and for my trouble he’s made me a multi-millionaire. If I wished it I’d never have to work another day in my life, but such idleness would never suit me.

I continue to follow the market, and invest my gold into what I believe to be worthwhile pursuits. Some days I’m rewarded for my efforts, some days I take heavy hits, but always I am at the top of my game and ready to get right back into it.

But as much as I enjoyed this busy life in the city, a part of me had grown weary of all the bustle and noise. So I found this estate in the country and bought it with cash with the intent of slowing down occasionally and pursuing some of my other hobbies. I’m an outdoorsman at heart, and I need to get my legs out from beneath the desk every now and again or I’ll lose my mind. Since buying the place back in August I’ve been looking forward to stretching them on long hikes through the countryside, to hunting and fishing and riding my favorite horse for hours without any destination in mind.

In fact, now that I’m finally here, I’m so eager to get out that I don’t even let lunch settle in my stomach before I’m back outside and on Mystic, a powerful white mare I raised from a foal, exploring my vast acreage.

It’s a gorgeous autumn day with blue sky and fluffy white clouds overhead. The leaves stand out on the trees in brilliant colors and carpet the mossy forest floor. I ride to my property line and follow it without seeing another human for miles. I’m amazed at the silence. After living on the frontlines and then in the city for so many years, I’d forgotten what silence sounded like.

Suddenly I am keenly aware of the littlest noises; of leaves rustling as a rabbit scurries across the path, and the quiet splash of a trout in the lake.

“I think I’m in trouble, Mystic,” I confide in my horse as I stop to dismount and let her drink. “It was supposed to be just a short vacation, but how can I go back to the city after this?”

Well, I reason with myself as I take my collapsible fishing pole— one of Horace’s many inventions— from the saddle bag. Maybe I won’t.

I dig in the soft earth until I find a worm and sink my line in the water, content to sit on this rock and bask in the autumn sun until evening.

And that’s just what I do.

I return to the house as the sun is setting and make a present of five big trout to the cook with orders for her to serve them up for the staff’s supper, and further orders to have a light meal sent up to me. Then I make my way to my bedroom on the second floor.

It’s getting on towards the last week of October and it’s chilly, so I’m glad to see a maid in my room kneeling over the fireplace. She does not look up at my entry, but keeps her eyes fixed on her job as she addresses me in a quiet voice.

“Pardon me, Master. I’ll have your fire built shortly.”

“Take your time.”

I take my coat off and loosen my collar. Then I go to a little table by the window and pour myself a glass of wine out of the waiting bottle. I taste it, and find the flavor pleasant and sweet. I take another sip, and my attention returns to the maid.

She is intently focused on her task. She wears her dark hair up, with little curling tendrils playing down the sides of her elegantly bent neck. I catch myself looking at it because I notice a white scar in the shape of a C just below her hairline. I wonder briefly what happened to her, but I refrain from voicing my curiosity aloud. I, of all people, am conscious of how little some desire to speak of their scars.

In no time she has the fire crackling cheerily. She rises but still she does not look up. Is she afraid of offending me by staring, I wonder? Or perhaps she just got her fill of gawking at my ugly mug this afternoon and now she can’t stomach the sight of it. Either way, it doesn’t hurt my feelings.

“The fire is built. Will you require a bed warming pan tonight, Master?”

“Mr. Bentham will do. And, no. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Mr. Bentham.”

She curtsies very prettily, lightly fanning her black sooty maid’s uniform as though it were a ruffled noblewoman’s gown, then leaves without once looking up. For half a second, I catch myself staring after her. Then I turn abruptly and take my seat before the fire with my boots stretched to it.

I am thinking of women, now. It’s something I catch myself doing from time to time. I’ve always intended to marry one someday, but I’ve been rather particular in my choosing, and now at twenty-eight I remain a bachelor.

Women are funny creatures. I can see at a glance that my visage horrifies and repulses them, though some admittedly look on me with pity, which is even worse in a way. But they’re all so quick to overlook my appearance when they learn I’m rich. They turn coy and fawning, pressing me lightly with their bodies and fluttering their eyelashes.

Oh, Roderick, they’ll say, tell us again of your fight in the trenches. How bold you were! What a noble scar, you wear it like a badge of honor.

The corner of my ruined lip twists faintly in a smirk. Those women’s intentions are as clear to me as day. And while it’s true I might select the prettiest among them willing to make love to me and make her Mrs. Bentham and shower her with all the riches she might desire, I know in my heart I would never be satisfied with such a marriage.

What I truly want is a companion, a woman who values me for who I am, without consideration for my wealth. Someone hardy I can take outdoors with me, someone to sit with through the winter months, contentedly discussing our favorite novels and epic poems long into the night. Someone soft to balance my roughness, someone…

It’s easy to get lost, trying to picture her, this person so wonderful I doubt she even exists. Though tonight for some reason I can almost put a shape to the ideal Mrs. Bentham. 

Dark hair, I think as I watch the fire. And gentle manners…